


Scotch on the Rocks

by sackoflemons



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Season 2, handjob, sleazy Chilton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 06:50:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5447150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sackoflemons/pseuds/sackoflemons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack goes to Chilton's house to do an interview and gets a lot more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scotch on the Rocks

**Author's Note:**

> ...I can't even explain this. I don't actually ship this pairing in a non-crackship way. I think I just wanted to see if I *could* write it, like a challenge to myself?
> 
> Thanks so much to headbuttingbears for helping me make this more believable and less gross!

“Thank you for coming, Agent Crawford,” Chilton said, extending a hand. Crawford took it, trying not to wince at Chilton’s too-firm handshake and the way that gaudy ring of his bit into his flesh. He was trying his hardest to remind Crawford he wasn’t weak despite what had happened to him, obviously, but he could afford to tone it down a bit.

“Shall we do this on the couch?” Chilton asked, that familiar crooked half-smile flitting across his face. “I’d like to make this an informal interview.”

“Whatever you’d like, Dr. Chilton,” Crawford said, sitting on his couch. “It’s your interview.”

Chilton sat primly next to him, their thighs nearly touching, and held out a glass. “Scotch?” Crawford took it but didn’t take a drink.

“Agent Crawford, we’re both men who are known for being the best at what we do,” Chilton said, somehow getting even closer. Crawford could smell his cologne and the alcohol on his breath. He had to admit that it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “It’s always been a delight to work with you, to exchange ideas with someone on my own level.”

“Likewise,” Crawford said, and he hoped his smile wasn’t as fake as it felt. Did Chilton’s loss of vision in the one eye cause him to overcompensate by maintaining eye contact with his good eye for too long? Because that’s what he was doing and it made him uncomfortable.

“It feels almost odd to be here talking about someone other than Hannibal,” Chilton said. There was that half-smile again. His mouth was so crooked when he did that. Had it been like that before the shooting? He had to admit it was almost… charming. How many people had he charmed with that smile?

“Yes,” Crawford said. “This new killer isn’t quite as colorful, is he?”

“He will be in my new book,” Chilton said, the half-smile growing into a full grin. “Which is why I’m going to need as much information as possible from you, Agent Crawford. As many of those delicious little details as you can provide.”

There was an uncomfortable emphasis on the word “delicious.” God, the way this man talked. Maybe he should crack open his complimentary autographed copy of _Hannibal the Cannibal_ just for a laugh. He was laying it on a little thick though, more so than usual.

The interview began, Chilton looking almost hilariously serious as he probed Crawford for information about the man he’d dubbed the “Library Killer,” jotting down notes and nodding at all the right times. It was amazing how the man could seem so desperate to impress when _he_ was the one doing the questioning.

Crawford began to get antsy after a half an hour of this questioning. He’d already downed the scotch and loosened his tie; Chilton seemed pleased by this. Crawford didn’t care what his reaction was. It was hot in there. How high did Chilton have his thermostat turned up? And how long would he have to listen to this insufferable little fuck?

“I for one cannot _wait_ until he’s in custody,” Chilton said, sounding more like he was talking about finding a rare butterfly to add to his collection than putting a serial killer behind bars. Crawford had begun to only half pay attention at that point. He should have realized it would be like this. It had started off simply enough, Chilton asking him basic questions about the killer with a dollop of his usual sleaze, but by this point it had degenerated into the usual: the man desperately trying to sound intelligent and blatantly stroking his own ego. He wasn’t even asking questions anymore. Had he really expected anything else?

Instead of actively listening to the man’s prattling, Crawford watched his mouth. How many times had he been punched there? Probably not enough. He had to admit that, if you forgot everything about his personality, there was something beautiful about his face, his profile. Something almost aristocratic about that nose. And those green eyes really were stunning. He knew one of them was milky white under the contact lens but that knowledge didn’t change the fact that he was… Crawford almost hated to admit this, but he was a handsome man. Objectively speaking, of course. A ridiculous little peacock, but attractive enough to justify it. Almost.

“Agent Crawford?” Oh, shit. How long had he been staring at Chilton?

“I’m sorry, I have a lot of things on my mind,” Crawford said, and ridiculously enough, felt his face heating up.

“It happens to the best of us,” Chilton said with a grin. He wasn’t upset at being ignored? That had to be a first. “Shall we take a break?” he asked, reaching for his tape recorder before he got an answer. Crawford couldn’t help but notice the way his suit jacket stretched across his back as he leaned over the end table. His shoulders were broad for such a small man. 

“Would you like some more scotch, Agent Crawford?” Chilton asked, and Crawford swore he saw his eyes twinkling before he felt the cold liquid splash into his lap.

“Oh my, I am SO sorry,” Chilton said, taking an expensive-looking handkerchief out of his pocket. Then, to Crawford’s horror, he began to dab the wet spot on his lap. The dabs became rubs, and did he really have to rub _that_ hard?

“Dr. Chilton-“ Crawford said, his breath catching in his throat as Chilton rubbed harder, a decidedly mischievous smile on his face as he locked eyes with him. There was no denying it now; he was definitely getting hard.

“Should I stop?” Chilton asked in a low voice. It was so different from his usual sassy, pretentious tone that it took Crawford a second to reply.

“No,” he said, and the decision was made. Might as well not fight it, whatever this was. It felt good, he’d been aching for human contact, and he wasn’t hurting anyone.

Chilton tossed the handkerchief aside and unbuttoned Crawford’s pants. He spat into his palm and pushed his hand inside at such an excruciatingly slow pace that Crawford thought he’d never feel his long fingers close around his dick. They did, though, and immediately began stroking it. It was obvious he’d had a lot of practice. Crawford leaned closer and pushed his hand through Chilton's hair, which was somehow even softer than it looked. He realized that, on a subconscious level, he'd always wanted to do that. He gripped it hard as Chilton’s hand worked faster and faster. He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it, if the noises he was making were any indication.

“Oh my God, Chilton-“ Crawford gasped as he came, hand tightening in Chilton’s hair. Chilton looked up at him as he slowly uncurled his fist. He suddenly felt terribly exposed.

“I- I don’t know what came over me,” Chilton said, scrambling to find the handkerchief he’d thrown before giving up and pulling a fresh one out of his jacket pocket. He wiped his hands and ran them through his hair, trying to rake it back into place. His face was rapidly turning red. “I am sorry.”

“It’s fine, Dr. Chilton,” Crawford said, not looking at him as he buttoned his pants. Had that really just happened?

“It was a temporary lapse of judgment that we’d do best to forget about,” Chilton said. “Now, shall we continue the interview? I do apologize for your trousers. The spill _was_ an accident.”

“It’s fine,” Crawford said, but he doubted he could forget about what had happened so easily. “I think we should continue this interview at another time.”

“Yes, of course, you’re right,” Chilton said, jumping to his feet. “Thank you again for coming.” He stopped, realizing what he’d just said, his face now completely drained of color.

“No, thank _you_ ,” Crawford said, showing himself to the door. “Goodbye, Dr. Chilton.” 

His mind reeled as he walked to his car. Had _Frederick Chilton_ really given him a handjob, and had he actually _liked it_? He was just lonely and tired, that was all. His life had been one big shitstorm for the past few years and he craved some positive human contact, regardless of the source. That had to be it. He had to forget about this immediately. Push it from his mind forever. And he was mostly successful, unless he looked at Chilton’s hands for too long.

**Author's Note:**

> My first Chilton fic, and it's a crackship :D;; I'm definitely going to write more in the future, but more of the fredsquared variety, since that's what I actually ship.


End file.
